


scarred

by vierago



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, SO MUCH SARCASM, Sarcasm, Slow Burn, and maybe defenders, and then s2 daredevil, basically i just left out her name but hey be a badass, hi i like to swear a lot, like damn this reader is sarcastic as shit, maybe have smut????, pre-s2 daredevil, so this story is bound to have explicit language, tis a reader-fic but i based it on an oc of mine, who knows right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vierago/pseuds/vierago
Summary: Time doesn't heal all wounds, that's for sure. The past continues to haunt her, haunt him, and when they come face to face, will their demons cancel out the others? Or will they destroy each other?





	1. ...And So it Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!! 
> 
> Well, this is my first time posting a fanfic ever, so I'm a tad nervous, but hey, I've been wanting to for awhile. So I love Frank Castle with all my heart and I just want to make something that allows us all to love him the way he deserves to be loved.  
> Apologies for no Frank this chapter! I just really wanted to set the scene, but I promise that he'll show up in the next one. This chapter actually had a mind of its own and it strayed so far from the original plan, but it works though, huh? Also, just so you guys are aware, I'll probably have some pretty gruesome stuff in here. As a forensic anthropologist, I have quite a few stories up my sleeve when it comes to murderous deaths; you certainly wouldn't want to see what I've seen. 
> 
> Anyways! I'll probably be posting the next chapter in a few days, so stay tuned!
> 
> xo Hamlet

It almost goes without saying that time heals all wounds, changing the once bloody and oozing lacerations into pink and raised scars. What they failed to say was that the wound never truly goes away, for scars remain long after your soul has passed and, not until your body lays to waste, does it finally disappear. For some people, it makes them stronger, allows them to forge a new sword and continue fighting. For others, it is so overbearing, so detrimental to their own hearts, that it causes them to crumble; break into thousands of shards with no possibility of picking up all the pieces. Those who survive receive little damage and can move forward with their lives. Yet those who are so destroyed by the raging wildfires will burn and be consumed. But everyone goes through pain― have both visible and invisible scars― and somehow they make it out alive. However, not without consequence. Maybe they have everlasting nightmares that shake them to the core, terrorize them so terribly where they fear sleep. Or maybe they freeze and panic at a certain color because it teleports them back to those horrific moments where they were abused without abandon.

No one leaves this life unscathed.

For a lasting moment, she thought herself free from this pain, from the agony of her past, but something always comes back to remind her. So maybe that’s why she does what she does, putting herself in dangerous situations, smoking the hell out of those cancerous cigarettes, and yet lives to see another day. There were healthier ways to cope, she could agree to that, but without a vice, how could she be human? She had experienced more than her fair share of pain, felt her heart break over and over again, but she still stands. In her mind, she deems herself unworthy of such a feat, for the ones who fell were of a higher caliber than she. They risked their lives for something worthwhile, something meaningful, and she? Well, she’s cataclysmic, she destroys herself from the inside out.

But she had no time to linger on such thoughts, as a hand lands on her shoulder, and her coffee drops out of her sweaty hands. 

“Jesus― holy shit Karen!” The blonde in question is smiling apologetically, blue eyes tinged with slight amusement at the other’s misfortune. She had met her by chance, after returning to the hell hole that was Hell’s Kitchen. It was fate, honestly, the fact that she somehow ran into them. She remembers the way Foggy had barreled into her, the smile on Matt’s face at her sudden appearance. It had been a long time since their days at Columbia University, which Foggy was quick to drill into her skull, but she let it go; it was a story for another time. So much had changed since their college days and, as much as they would’ve liked to reminisce, she would rather leave things in the past. But her friendship with the two aspiring lawyers was an important part of her and she’d do anything to keep it. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. Let me get you another one.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to not sneak up on people?”

“Hey, I called your name seven times.”

She can see the concern in the corners of her smile, which she is quick to brush off; Karen didn’t need her to air her dirty laundry. But she certainly wouldn’t let her get away with ignoring it, she had to satiate her somehow. 

A chuckle escapes her lips, hand reaching to grasp Karen’s on her shoulder, “I’m still half asleep. You know it takes me a full hour to even think about getting out of bed.” And the look on her face is enough to tell her this conversation isn’t over, but, for now, she’ll leave it be. The two of them had grown close since their first meeting, Karen could now differentiate between her actual feelings and the sarcasm she used to cover them up. She always was a bit sharper than people gave her credit for and not much escaped her these days; she had to change her tactics. 

As they walk down the street to the nearest coffee shop, her hand had gently pushed Karen’s from her body, which didn’t go unnoticed. Even to this day, she still had some small issues with human contact, opting for isolation instead of camaraderie. Something that both Foggy and Karen got on her back about and Matt just sat idly by; he’d wait until they were alone to say anything about it. In their eyes, she was no longer that same girl they had met back then when they were just getting their feet wet. She wasn’t the same girl who laughed so hard she’d snort, or the girl who smiled so brightly, or the girl who wouldn’t let them leave her sight without a quick hug. Like she said, that was in the past and there was no use dwelling on it now. 

“So, did you ever call that doctor back? Or did you give him the slip?” It took her a moment to recall the man in question, fingers stilling in their ministrations. 

“Which doc― oh, _him_. God, no, he was too full of himself.” She takes a sip of her coffee, hissing at the scalding heat moving its way down her throat. “I should’ve just left and put a mirror in my chair. I doubt he’d tell the difference. He’d probably actually have more in common with it.”

The melodious sound of her laughter fills her ears, blonde hair tucked behind her ears as she quickly thanks the barista. “Was it that bad?”

“I would’ve rather spoon out my own eyes than listen to him talk **ever** again.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it.”

“I’ve been told I’m very poetic.”

“I think you missed your calling.”

A snort leaves her body, eyes rolling before settling on her companion, smirk lighting up her features. She’d have to thank Foggy again later for introducing them; no one gets her like Karen does.

“Are you heading to the office? I’ll walk you over, visit the boys.”

                                                                     ―――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――― 

The sun had finally found its way beneath the horizon, allowing for the moon to rise into her place. She traveled in the guise of the shadows, hiding her person in its comforting darkness, keeping herself out of the public eye. But in a city where crime reigns and vigilantes clean up the streets, it wasn’t hard to remove herself from the stage. Clad in all black, she pulls the hood of her jacket over her head, covering the baseball cap and allowing her to slink more stealthily through the city. To anyone else, she’d look like a thief of some kind― she’s honestly surprised she hasn’t come toe-to-toe with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen yet― but she knew why she was out here. In her backpack hides her camera, equipped with a wide assortment of lenses, a few notebooks, a bottle or two of water, and a .45 caliber Glock. 

She wasn’t here to help with the vigilantism, she wasn’t out here to get into fights with the city’s worst criminals, no, she was here to expose them. She remembered when she landed the job at the Bulletin, explaining to Ellison that, while she didn’t want to write, she wanted to do the dirty work; she wanted to be the one to catch them in the act. And he agreed, telling her she’d be credited in the article, but as a contributor. 

He wanted to protect her, but she couldn’t care less if these assholes knew. 

When she arrives at the warehouse, she immediately canvases the area, taking note of the multiple side doors, large docking bays, and the number of guards patrolling the perimeter. It’s with this she singles out the one building they’ve left alone; a mistake on their part. Running to the backside of the adjacent structure, she’s climbing up the rusting fire escape, ears catching on the slight chatter of the inhabitants in their apartments. She’s as swift as she is quiet, making little noise as she reaches the top and settles herself at the edge closest to the warehouse. Pulling her backpack off and placing it on the ground in front of her, she’s looking around, pausing once to listen to any alarming sounds, before bringing her camera out. 

And she’s getting to work, snapping photos left and right as she watches shipments come in and out until she notices the few SUVs with tinted windows drive into the docking bay. This is what she was waiting for, why she’s out here now. Most of the Russian gang members left once they were decimated by the Devil months ago, but a few have stayed, trying to build their enterprise up from its ashes. Unfortunately, for them, she was about to put a stop to their human trafficking― man, did they stoop low― for good and prevent them from re-establishing themselves in the Kitchen. 

That was until she noticed who exactly stepped out of the car.

Melikov Igorevich, one of the nastiest sons of bitches to ever have graced the slum-filled streets of this city. He received the nickname, ‘The Butcher’, after the ways in which he tortured and killed his enemies. He was insane, off the rails, and the Russians knew this. 

If she was anyone else, she’d run, get away from here as fast as she can, and never tell anyone about this. But she wasn’t and there was no way she’d let this one go. 

However, if she actually wanted to capture a decent photo of him, she’d have to get closer, and getting closer meant she’d have to take out a few guards in another building. Digging back into her backpack, she shifts its contents around, feeling the barrel, fingers wrapping around the magazine, before gripping tightly onto the grip of the gun. She glances over the edge watching the movements of the guards, following their every footstep as they walk the compound; she’d have to do this quietly if she wanted to get the chance. Pulling a few more items from her bag, she slips the leather gloves on before screwing the silencer onto the barrel of the gun and, when she’s finished, tugs the black bandana over the lower half of her face. She knew what kind of trouble she was diving into and she’d be stupid to showcase her identity.

Securing the Glock in the waistband of her jeans, she re-situates the bag on her back, fingers gripping the edge of the rooftop. With a quick shrug, she flips over the side, landing gracefully upon the fire escape once again. When she was close enough to the bottom, she launched herself over the railings, rolling once she makes contact with the concrete. She’s quick to glance over her shoulder, moving silently through the shadows and between buildings, dodging a few guards. She could take these ones out, she could, but she didn’t want to waste the time on them, rather saving it for the ones who she’d have to go through. 

Scaling the side of the other building, she’s pulling herself into one of the first-floor windows, narrowly avoiding the guard turning the corner outside. The gun is removed from its spot in her jeans, grasped tightly in her right hand, as she moves through the complex. 

The first man is by the stairs, lounging haphazardly on the railings, and he’s an easy one to take out. A bullet between the eyes is all he gets before she’s reaching his side to stop him from falling. She’s on the second floor now as she spots a man by the window, another pacing up and down the hall, and a third, burlier one standing guard in the doorway. The only way she’s getting through this is by quick and calculated decisions; the one pacing had to go first, she’d down him with a bullet. His body hitting the floor is what alerts the other two. The guy by the window had to go next; he’s moving to check on the guy, but she’d stop him first. His gun is at the ready, her left grabs the barrel, the right grips his wrist tightly, and, applying force, the gun is flipped from his hands. She twists his wrist, snapping the bones, and then, with her own gun, shoots him in the left temporal. 

By now, the third guy has taken notice, barging into the room as she shoots the other. She kicks the other gun into another room before the guy is throwing punches at her. She’s dodging each one, finding an open space, she kicks at his chest with her right foot, twirling to a crouch as her left leg shoots out to place a jarring hit to his knee. She feels it blow out, starts to hear his scream of agony, and quickly whips her gun into the back of his head to stun him. Instead of a scream, he lets out a low groan, giving her all the cover she needs, gun against the lambdoid, his brains spewing onto the floor beneath him. 

She’s almost surprised at how easy it was.

Making it to the third floor and onto the roof, she pulls out her camera from her bag, slinging it back in its place before taking photos of Melikov and his men. She’s taking as many as she can, catching him in the act, a smile slowly finding its way upon her face as she clicks through the pictures. She’s got everything she needs to drag him through the dirt, a breathy chuckle escaping her lips in victory. She’s quickly putting away her things and securing them in her pack when she hears it; the tell-tale sound of a gun cocking behind her. 

Now she’s **_fucked_**.


	2. One Hand on the Trigger

    She could easily kill this man, there’s no doubt about it. A quick turn of the wrist, break the bones and disarm him, and finally, a sharp twist of his head and the cervical vertebrae would snap. And she truly would do it, but the fact that he had radioed in, told the rest of those scheming scumbags exactly where she was, they could swarm her within minutes.

 

    Even if she craved a challenge, she really wasn’t up to fighting off a whole complex of men, and, honestly, who could? No matter how good someone was they would be killed before they could even leave the building.

 

    “Make a wrong move and I kill you.”

 

    The muzzle of the weapon is now digging forcefully into her back, prodding her to the next location and, most certainly, to the belly of the beast. At this point, she prayed for a miracle. Unless, she could find a weak point, exploit it, and get the hell out of here. And there the plan was, a half-assed one at that, but she had no other options now.

 

    She wonders how she missed him. The building was secure, she made sure of it, even as she stormed the third floor; she was in the clear. And when he’s pushing her out the building does she realize that he was the same man she’d only narrowly missed as she first crept into the window.

 

    God, she better not be losing her touch.

 

    A quick shove at her shoulder blade, she’s stumbling forward into two other men, grabbing her violently, pulling her towards the warehouse. They’d stripped her of her weapon, her bag in the hands of the man who’d caught her, its contents being shuffled around. The two beside her had meaty hands wrapped around her arms, fingers sinking into her flesh, surely leaving bright blooming purples and reds. She struggles within their grasp, not to escape but to test their limits, feel when they lose contact and the seconds it takes to grab hold of her again. Not to mention the pain currently pounding like a dull ache in her joints.

 

    She couldn’t go into that building; she’d be a dead man, no doubt about that. They’d bring her directly in front of Melikov, placing her at his mercy- which there was no supply of- and into the hands of death himself. Her eyes are darting around the outside, checking doors, windows, anything that she could sprint to, but to no avail. She might just have to risk going further into the building. They stopped abruptly, shoving her past the loading bays and into a packing zone, watching as the grueling smiles of many different men as she’s pulled along the way. She’s almost seething as they jerk her this way and that, pulling relentlessly at her limbs until she’s almost sure they’ve dislocated one. Her heart is thumping in her chest and, for one of the only times in her life, she’s starting to fear what lies ahead. For someone so close to death, she has never found herself in his sight; she had never been on his list until now.

 

    She can feel it like bile rising up in her throat, burning and scorching as it ravages the soft tissue there. Nails are gouging out her palms, feeling the blood start to dribble from the spaces between her fingers. And as they start to pull her into a musty and dank room, she strikes. The back of her head makes contact with the blonde offender’s nose, feeling as the cartilage and bone crunch beneath her skull. Left foot smashes down onto the other’s toes, successfully breaking the phalanges and releasing both of their grips upon her. Her hands had been zip tied at one point, making this escape harder than she would’ve liked, and secured behind her back. Dropping down to duck, she missed the punch the first man throws, one hand placed upon his bloodied and broken nose, the other finding its place at the temple of the bald man. He’s stunned for a moment, losing his footing, and collapsing to the ground. She whips a leg out, catching the first offender at the Achilles’ heel, knocking him off his feet.

 

    While this was occurring, the compound exploded into gunshots and screams, bullets raining upon the Russian shitheads and sending Melikov and his men scrambling away. She was too focused in her own predicament to care enough about that right now, deciding to deal with it later. Her thighs are wrapped around the blonde’s neck, applying too much pressure for him to breath, while he scrapes and stabs at her vulnerable skin, anything to get her to release him. And even though he continually inflicts pain, she’s strong enough to continue her hold on him, to choke him until he stops moving. His thrashing elicits the unwanted attention of the other man, finally coherent enough to understand the situation. He comes crashing down on her, foot slamming into the side of her head, and she gasps at the blinding pain. At this, she releases her hold, rolling to the side to avoid another injury to her head. The other man stays down, breathing shaky and wheezing occasionally, but the bald one resumes his assault on her, kicks coming in fast succession to her ribs.

 

    The sudden turn of events had her mind reeling as the pain blossoms throughout her body, but she’s quick to regain her senses and retaliate. Palms pressing as hard as they can, her legs swipe up, slamming her knee into the bald man’s groin, and then shooting forward to flip her onto her feet. With the propelling motion, she’s able to catch her knee upon the throat of the blonde, pushing with as much force as her bruised body will allow. As his windpipe collapses, the bald man is stomping towards her, fingers threading roughly through her hair and pulling with a jarring snap. A scream is released from her lips, neck in excruciating pain as her hair is almost torn from her scalp, and he’s dragging her along the floor.

 

    With her anguished shrieks, the gunshots get louder and louder, and her screams turn angry a purely animalistic screech scraping up the raw skin of her throat. Her head turns suddenly, sinking her teeth into the flesh of his thigh, and clamping down until she tastes blood. He howls in pain, throwing her across the room and into the concrete wall. Finally released from his grasp, she uses the wall as a crutch, finding purchase on her feet. Her shoulders screaming in their contorted position, her breathing ragged and heaving. The blonde man is still trying to regain his bearings, almost at the edge of unconsciousness, and the bald man stands there bleeding and furious. She had to finish this now.

 

    She charges forward, knee slamming into the bald’s abdomen, teeth coming to gnash into the vulnerable flesh of his throat, and she tears. The blood spurts, spraying hot crimson over her face and into her hair, dripping down to the floor. And he’s gurgling now, screams drowned out by the blood coagulating in his throat, his once pale fingers frantically grabbing at his neck.

 

    At this point, the gunshots were even louder than before, and the room explodes. The door ripped off its hinges, multiple more men running into the room in fear and anger. Yet when they see her, they wonder if they’ve traded one devil for another.

 

    The source of the bullets is now present in her vision and she doesn’t even spare him a glance as she’s digging the heel of her boot into the neck of the blonde man. He’s quick to suffocate this time and she is more than glad to have him gone. The bald man is still twitching in agony, his body now slumped against the wall, but he was the last of her worries. Even if this new man was a danger to her, she couldn’t care less; they appeared to have a common enemy.

 

    They both spring into action, her grasping at the knife on the blonde’s hip, cutting through the plastic zip tie around her wrists and freeing her arms from their straining position. With this, she’s free to fight to her fullest capacity, the man with the guns shooting the shit out of the men at the front of the room. Leaving the ones towards the back for her, she wastes no time jumping into the fray.

 

    A few of them have attempted to bring knives into the play, swiping at her in hopes they catch a vital organ. Each one is dodged and diverted to someone else, using their own weapons against each other. She kicks one in the chest, pulling his knife from his hand, and stabbing it into his jugular. Another jumps onto her back, holding her in a headlock and allowing for a different one to have a go at her. But before he can jab the knife into her stomach, she’s drifting to the right, receiving a cut on her side instead. She’s flipping the man over her head, slamming him violently into the ground, twirling on her feet to shove the palm of her hand into the knee of the other. Pulling the butterfly knife from her boot, she’s stabbing one, two, three, four...eight wounds into the torso of the man before her. With another twist, she launches the blade forward, sticking it straight into the forehead of another.

 

    And she gives herself a moment to breathe, to catch herself before she collapses from the adrenaline. In that moment, she forgets the other men in the room, one moving forward to shoot a bullet through her skull. Except it doesn’t ever leave the chamber. The man in the trench coat, possibly her ally, has stopped him with his own bullet, the residual sound echoing through the now bloodied room.

 

    Then it’s silent.

 

    She’s breathing heavily, hands resting on her knees, leaned over as her eyes stare holes into the ground. She knows how gruesome she must look, like Bloody Mary herself came to play, her hair stringy, hands bleeding, face bruised, blood dripping from her lips, and trailing all the way down the column of her throat. The vermillion covered every inch of her and left no part of her porcelain skin clean. And as she stands, her eyes catch with his dark ones, and she can only imagine what he sees.

 

    He’s tall, muscular, broad shouldered, but seemingly in shape. Hair is closely cropped, shaved, he’s almost bald as well. There are bruises of his own, blooming in purples and yellows and so many colors she had never imagined on one’s skin. He stands before her, intimidating, yet somewhat calming to her frazzled senses. After all, he did her quite a service; she still doesn’t know how she would’ve escaped on her own. As she was seizing him up, he was surveying her for a fleeting moment, taking in her bloodied appearance, and he sees her for the warrior she is. The silence stretches longer than expected, her discomfort beginning to make her fidget, hand running along the sensitive skin of her wrist. And she realizes she can’t continue like this anymore.

 

    “I wasn’t a damsel in distress. But, thanks.”

 

    She feels completely idiotic now. What else do you possibly say to a man who watched you brutally murder people? Who killed many others without even a blink of an eye?

 

    “Get out of here, kid.”

 

    As simple as it was, and non-threatening, she can’t help but bristle at the comment, exhaling slowly through her nose. “Kid? Far from it.” Her teeth grind helplessly against each other, grasping at the jacket off the dead body, lifting it to her face and wiping as much of the crimson mess away.

 

    “You lookin’ for a death wish?”

 

    The question stuns her for a brief moment, movements stilling, before a sigh leaves her, cloth falling to the floor. She shifts to the entrance of the room, grabbing at her backpack and checking the contents. “Not exactly. I have a job to do, though. Even if it puts me in dangerous situations.”

 

    It’s a simple nod of his head, drifting slightly from foot to foot, almost waiting for her to move first. And she does, slinging the pack onto her shoulders, limping towards the exit of the compound, him following a bit behind her. She can only assume he’s checking to make sure everyone here is dead.

 

    “Might wanna lay low for a while. The Russians ain’t gonna let you off easily.”

 

    “I know. I’ll keep my nighttime activities to a minimum.”

 

    “You do this a lot?”

 

    “Not to this extent. I usually don’t get so involved.”

 

    His head nods once again, he’s not a man of words. This is something she picked up on quickly, but she shrugs it off. Fingers pressing into the straps on her shoulders, body almost groaning in agony.

 

    “You might want to leave before more come,” her eyes once again drifting to catch his gaze, “Thank you, again.”

 

    “No problem, ma’am.”

 

    Chuckle leaves her lips, head shaking in disbelief. It was a start.

 

    Half-hearted salute in his direction, slight smile on her split lips, and she’s trudging back to her motorcycle, leaving him and the compound behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends!
> 
> I have returned with another chapter! And boy, did this one take a bit out of me. A lot of action in this one and a lot of gory goodness. Once again, this had a mind of its own and I know the interaction between the two is pretty minimal, buuuuuuuut I hope to get a full grasp of his character before delving completely into it. Besides, it's a slow burn my friends, it ain't gonna happen overnight. Hopefully, y'all enjoyed this one and here's to the start of another chapter!
> 
> xo Hamlet


	3. Acting Out

It’s weeks later before she encounters the trench-coated man once again. 

 

Her wounds have healed, bruises faded to warmer skin tones, and scars dissolved into thin white lines. When she returned to work a few days later, she had received an earful from Ellison- not to mention the lectures from both Foggy and Karen- and was strictly told to keep things quiet for awhile. 

 

It was Matt who finally pulled her aside on the rooftops one night that she begrudgingly took another few weeks off. Matty decked out in his red suit, like the angel on her shoulder, always looking after her. Back when they met, he immediately had a soft spot for her (maybe it was the fight in her eyes and the stubbornness in her shoulders), but he couldn’t help but take her under his wing. 

 

And only his guiding voice could keep her out of trouble. 

 

Even if she would beg him to listen to his own advice once in awhile. 

 

But perhaps the two of them were more like siblings than friends sometimes and they both shared characteristics that would one day be the death of them. Even so, they kept an eye out for each other, hence his hesitancy towards her insistence and determination. 

 

Her fingertips draw patterns upon the poorly tiled walls, cool water cascading down the plane of her back, and eyes glazed over as she remains lost in thought. The night had fallen quickly in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, the heat of the day driving many to crawl into whatever hole they’d hidden themselves in. The cooler breezes of the nighttime air and the safety of the moon drawing them from their sticky sanctuary and into the streets of New York. Even if humidity clung to the air like a leech, it was better than the assault of the burning sun upon their backs. 

 

Summer was beginning to blaze, spring ending its last footsteps, Persephone breathing life into shades of death. She wasn’t planning on going out tonight, rather, deciding to spend the night smoking cigarettes on the roof of her building, waiting for the moment that her torturous mind quiets. Anxiety shakes at her fingers, trembling in her spine, eating at her heart. Yet her bones quake with the sound of silence and beg for her demons to stop tearing at her insides. 

 

The water is turned off, arms wrapped around her frame, towel embracing her dewy skin. A sigh escapes her lips as she traipses around her apartment, running the towel quickly through her hair, loose shirt thrown over gym shorts. She shoves her feet into the sneakers riddled with holes, hands grasping at one of Matt’s old sweatshirts, cigarettes and lighter tucked into the waistband of her shorts. And she’s climbing through her window, making her way up the rusted fire escape. 

 

The sounds of the nightlife echo through her ears, her eyes shifting through the shadows as some grate against her senses. Pulling herself onto the roof, she throws one leg over the side, she perches herself on the edge. The cigarette is lit within seconds, puffs of smoke billowing from her lips as she hikes the opposite leg upon the ledge, resting her arm on her knee. White stick hangs from lips, fingers tapping against the brick, her mind everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Her nerves are frayed, dancing frantically, the trembles in her body beginning to settle. Her heart begs for release, but the monsters in her head won’t let her rest. 

 

And that’s when she hears it.

 

The woman’s scream is shrill, gut-wrenching, and she can feel the blood drain from her face. 

 

You’re not a hero, she reminds herself. All she does is gain proof, expose the fucking shitty stuff, and starts all over again the next day. She is no savior, that was drilled into her long ago; along with the holes in her armor. Yet the screams get louder, the sheer terror more obvious, death readies his scythe to strike. 

 

She’s telling herself no, using every inch of her willpower to stop her from launching herself from her perch and to the aid of this misfortunate woman, but every single part of her is screaming for her to help. 

 

It’s not her problem, it’s not her battle to fight, and that small piece of reality hits her like a fucking train and she knows that this isn’t for her to do. She doesn’t help people, no, not with her history, not with her past-life. 

 

And she’s shoving her nails into the palm of her hand. 

 

The smoke dangles from her deft fingers, the screaming stops, blood drips between digits, and the world keeps going on.

 

* * *

 

The next night is spent similarly to the previous, yet cigarettes are traded with guns, tattered clothes exchanged for black, shaking fingers switched for steely eyes. Blood thrums in her ears, strength etched in the lines of her body, and she feels like herself again. The weak girl is molded, recreated into a female warrior, ivory sharpened into weapons, flesh hardened into armor. 

 

But she had a job to do, had a whole shit storm to uncover and tear apart. 

 

No Russians this time, instead, lowly drug dealing miscreants parading around like worthless trophies. The pieces of shit thought they were special, doing the dirty work of whatever filthy rich asshole ordered it; they never liked to throw down in the mud. Camera out and ready, she’s snapping whatever photos she can get, hiding in the shadows, catching whatever illegal shit they were doing. 

 

The whole thing was pretty minuscule, a small operation from the looks of it, but she knew something bigger was pulling its strings. Cutting this off was the first step of many and she was willing to see it through. Though she preferred to cut the head off first, leave the minions scrambling, set panic in motion. 

 

Her steps are quiet, bathing in darkness, wrapping it around her frame like a cloak, and allowing its safety to keep her at bay. They’re chatting about who they fucked up the other day, which girl they’d be balls deep in tonight, and all the stupid shit in between. She’s itching to put a bullet in their heads, put them down before they ever do anything idiotic again. But she knows her place, knows what the goal is here; even if the blood thirsty beast roars in her head, grind at her bones, bites at her feet. 

 

Their lackadaisical expressions and languid body language scream how inefficient they are and how so very naive they truly are. They’re only just getting their feet wet, too excited to become the gangster they always wished they could be. And they were in for a rude awakening.

 

She wonders if they’ve caught onto her, springing into frenzied action, looking so very unprepared for what was about to hit. The docks exploded into panic and terror; the men suddenly moving frantically about, hands immediately gripping their rifles. Retreating further into the shadows, her heart beats in her chest, reverberating through her bones, hitting every corner of her body. It’s a slight fear, creeping up her spine, even if she could take them all on easily, but a part of her is still stuck somewhere in between her previous night and the feelings roaming her head. 

 

The idea that she could lose herself in the blink of an eye, yet she shoves it aside, especially when the gunshots ring out. 

 

It’s almost as if someone flicked a switch; the relaxed serenity suddenly replaced with widespread panic and a deeply seeded fear. These guys were cannon fodder though, going down without a hitch, and she almost feels a bit sorry for them. They’re mowed down, slaughtered like cattle, put down like a rabid animal, and, in the blink of an eye, it’s quiet once again. This group was not equipped to deal with someone like him. 

 

He stalks in like the conqueror himself, like William the Bastard had been reincarnated into one of the devil’s horsemen, into the body of Ares’ disciple. And it’s what he is to her, the god of war come to play, to tear down all those in his way. Her breath almost catches, a bubble of fear latching itself into the skin of her throat, her mouth agape, eyes widened. 

 

Her fingers twitch, almost dropping the camera, the slight gasp drawing attention to herself. His head shifts, eyes searching the shadows for her figure, gun held tightly in his palms. She’s apprehensive at first, throat clearing slightly, feet pulling her into his line of sight, and even though her hands are clammy, she brings herself to move closer and closer to his tense figure.

 

“It’s okay, I’m not here to cause trouble.” Her words hanging on deaf ears, his dark eyes narrowed, sizing her up. He’s surveying her, cataloging weak points, distractions, anything to take her down. Yet she means no more harm than a kneading kitten, uncertainty in its sharpened claws. 

 

And maybe he senses it on her or recalls her bloodied figure before him all those weeks ago, but he’s gently facing the barrel of his rifle towards the ground.

 

“You were in more than enough trouble last time.”

 

“But this is a different situation. I don’t have people after me this time.”

 

His eyebrows raise, the look on his face screaming ‘bullshit’. But she is right, she’s not at the mercy of another man at the moment, doesn’t have a metaphorical noose around her neck. She doesn’t have a drop of blood on her, not one speck of it.  

He notices, eyes quickly moving about her frame, before he’s turning away, moving to leave. And she sees this, voice escaping her throat before she could stop.

 

“Wait- I, um…”

 

Head turns, he’s glancing her from over his shoulder.

 

“Why these guys? I mean, I know why we’re both here, but these guys? They’re just pawns in a bigger game.”

 

He grunts, boots pounding on the pavement as he continues to leave. And she’s dashing forward, almost placing a hand upon his forearm, but she stops.

 

“Please, you owe me that at least.”

 

A sigh escapes his lips, body twisting, eyes catching with hers. She was right in a sense, he did her a favor the last time they met. He understood just as much as she did that, if not for him, she probably wouldn’t have been able to get out of her predicament. And even though everything inside him screams for him to stop, to keep this information to himself, he knows he owes her some sort of answer.

 

“You said it, they’re pawns in a bigger game. Gotta start with the small ones.”

 

She understands, she does, she gets where he’s coming from, but if anything, it makes her even more curious as to what his plans are. Why would a man gun down a group of young thugs? Especially with a growing crime rate and an increase in vigilantism, the cops would have a field day with him. Even as his face remains uncovered to her, she knows that the authorities could find him in seconds, but she gets it. If it wasn’t for her past and twisted conscious, she’d be doing it too, she’d be out on the streets killing the assholes running this town. It’s one thing Matt and she did not share, his sentiment of morality and her merciless heart. It’s the thing that helps her to understand this man’s vendetta. 

 

“And what’s your source? How do you know these people are out there?”

 

“Look, kid, I ain’t looking to be a part of your heroic story. Whatever it is you’re writing or trying to do, I ain’t gonna be in it.”

 

“Ugh, what did I say about calling me kid?” Annoyance leaks into her level tone, eyes rolling with malcontent. “Honestly, though, I don't write anything. I just take the pictures and do a little digging.”

 

If he was dissatisfied with her answer, he doesn’t show it, that irreplaceable brooding upon his features. She’s sighing now, hands dropping to her sides in exasperation. 

 

“Fine, don’t tell me anything. Just know we’ll be seeing each other around a lot.”

 

And with that, he’s turning to leave, stalking away quicker than she can even speak, a scoff leaving her lips. 

 

“Well fuck you, too.” It’s mumbled under her breath, leaving towards the opposite end of the docks. Between their two meetings, she doesn’t know what to think; he seemed determined, ready to fight at the drop of a pin. Even as she spoke with him nonchalantly, she can see the battle upon his war-laden shoulders, and wonders if he ever wasn’t geared for war. 

 

She doesn’t even know his goddamn name, the strange soldier-man. That much she can deduce; it’s in the way he moves, how he carries himself, the features of his face, the cut of his hair, the shape of his body. He was definitely a soldier of some kind, but has he ever really left battle? 

 

And she has to stop her mind from wandering, as it just dances along the edges of her own upbringing, of things scarring and alarming, and nightmares that jar her awake every night. 

 

As she makes it to her apartment building, she can feel eyes on her, shifting around to survey her surroundings. The darkness is searched, rooftops observed, and maybe she can almost make out a figure, but she shakes herself, reminded that things can be imagined from nothing, and walks inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter took me forever to write and, for the most part, I feel kinda iffy about it. Anyways, I probably re-wrote this fifteen times, so there's that. I really have enjoyed the comments I've been getting and the interest that people have for this story! At times, I can feel a bit uncomfortable writing Frank, but I hope I get better with each chapter. 
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long, but I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> -Hamlet xo


	4. Plans

The nights get shorter and shorter, her ability to hide within the confines of the darkness dwindling with each day that passes. A part of her cries out in anguish, wanting so desperately to swaddle itself within the draping blankets of the night, but she knows better than anyone else how misfortunate it is. This part of her that finds comfort in the black- the swirling depths of onyx- will claw out her eyes, bleed her dry, and corrupt the crevices of her mind. She knows the impossibility of it all, knows the aching despair in her bones, and no matter how hopeless she may begin to feel, she cannot even begin to quell the desire pooling in her heart.

 

Even so, she must continue on, push forward, no matter how she may feel inside, for the world doesn’t stop for anyone, and certainly not people like her.

 

She still managed to get up in the morning, make coffee, feed that entirely too attached cat, and face the day with her armor still intact. And each day was the same, her nights following the same intense pattern; surveying criminals, taking a few photos, maybe kicking some ass, and running into him.

 

She wasn’t lying when she told him they’d be seeing more of each other. In fact, they saw each other almost nightly, each time more normal than the last (as normal as two chaotically charged people could be). She no longer jumped at the sound of his first bullet and he no longer pointed his gun at her when she emerged from the shadows. They weren’t on speaking terms, no, they never asked about the weather or the others’ well-being. If anything it was a few meaningful grunts or a nod of their head; there was nothing to be discussed.

 

In her mind, she was slightly put-off by his distant nature, but she knew he wasn’t here to play nice. A man who waded so far into the shit wouldn’t stick his hand out for a friendly shake. She didn’t blame him either, making friends with a target on your back never proved fruitful.

 

She still wasn’t sure what to think of this harrowed soldier; his personality was less than pleasant, his demeanor unsettled and angry, and he reeked of coffee on a good day. Yet he still intrigued her and she couldn’t find it in her to stay away entirely. Sure, she kept her distance, put a 14-foot wall, an equally as deep moat, and dangerous hazards between them, but there was something about him that made her want to know more. She blamed it on her job and her incessant need to investigate.

 

* * *

 

 

When night fell again, she felt the tremblings slow, the demons inside her quiet, and the blanketing serenity of comfort befall her. There was something about the moon that energized her, breathed life back into sinewed bones, and told her to start again.

Her boot-clad feet hit the pavement with a start, the door of her building closing shut behind her, and keys jingling haphazardly in the pockets of her jean jacket. She’d told Matt she’d take the night off again, join him and the crew at Josie’s and have some fun for once.

 

And how could she say no to Foggy’s puppy eyes?

 

Cigarette is lit between lips, small puffs of smoke leaving the gap amid them as she moves closer and closer to her destination. Its neon sign welcomes her back, embracing her with both arms wide, its pink hues bathing her in the essence of home. Somehow this place had become a sanctuary for her; the broken air system, rank bathrooms, and walls covered in grime and posters. It was as divey as bars could get, but she wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

 

As she walks through the door, the sounds of rambunctious laughter, clinking glasses, taps of pool cues, and slurring voices assault her; it’s a good feeling. Immediately, she spots the familiar soft blonde, shaggy red, and groomed brown locks of her friends, a small smile resting upon her face. The happiness is painted along their features as Foggy most definitely tells a joke, the mischief in his eyes, the genuine grin stretching Karen’s lips, and the amused smirk from Matt. They hadn’t spotted her yet, making it almost the perfect moment for her, seeing their uplifted spirits and positive demeanors.

 

And soon after, Matt recognizes the beat of her heart, a smile flitting up to his face, drawing the attention of the other two in his company.

 

“Hey, what are you doing over there? Get over here!” Foggy’s slurred exclamation bringing her to snort, her lean legs already bringing her to their spot on the stool beside him. His arm is slung over her shoulder instantly, pulling her into his side as he yells at Josie, “Josie, my favorite lady, get us a round of shots for the table!”

 

And even as Josie rolls her eyes, she can see the mirth in the corners of the woman’s lips. She feels the laughter bubbling up inside her, and suddenly she’s lighter somehow. Karen’s hand is on her arm, a small squeeze and a smile shared between the two of them.

 

“Glad you could make it.”

 

The shots are banged onto the table, Foggy immediately grabbing for one before Josie could pull away, and a short greeting is exchanged between her and the older woman. A fond, ‘how you doing, sweetie?’, and a ‘good to see you again, Jos’, before she’s turning to grunt at Foggy.

 

“Alright, before we get too deep in this, I’m going to hit the bathroom,” Matt speaks as he moves from his seat, a hand slid across Karen’s back, a bashful smile on the blonde’s face. As he moves past her, he grasps onto her shoulder, lips pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, “I’m happy you’re here.” A knowing look his face before he’s cautiously moving towards the bathroom.

 

“Okay, enough talking and not enough drinking. Let’s do it like we did in college.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was nearing one in the morning when Karen finally called it quits; she’d been nodding off for the past half-hour. Foggy was absolutely spent, trying to hit it off with some group of girls and failing miserably- she had to give it to him, the kid had guts- while Matt just sat beside her and laughed about stupid stories from their past.

 

She hailed Karen a taxi, told him to get her home safe (more like threatened him), and watched them drive away. Turning around, she re-joined Matt with a more than drunk Foggy draped across his shoulders, her laugh echoing along the still lively streets.

 

“I’m assuming you’re gonna need help with that.”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

“A drunk man and a blind man don’t mix well.”

 

“Well, I could handle this just fine.”

 

“I don’t think we need the pull the big guns out for his drunk ass.”

 

“It would be a great story to tell him when he wakes up.”

 

And the smile that erupts onto her lips is contagious, the corners of his own lips upturning.

 

“How about I get you a cab and you don’t worry about getting him home?”

 

The discomfort on his face is palpable, the idea of leaving her on her own bitter on his tongue, but he’s aware of just how well she can take care of herself. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll walk you home together.”

 

“Matt, that’s ridiculous,” she sighs, fingers reaching to knead at her temple, “just let me get you a cab, please.” And he knows he can’t deny her and her kind heart. The heart she doesn’t think she has, but he knows better, that he wishes she’d see in herself.

 

“Okay, you win.”

 

And before he realizes, he’s stuffed into the back of the musty cab, his drunk friend lain on his lap, and her silhouette quickly disappearing behind him. She waved them off, the euphoria from their time lasting longer than she expected. She’s happy again, remembering just what it was like to be around those she loved; she notes to hang out with them more often.

 

Fingers fumble to remove the Marlboro pack from the confines of her jacket, smoke nestled between the pillows of her lips, fire from her busted up lighter igniting the end of the stick. She inhales deeply, savoring the first toxic smoke before she starts the walk back to her apartment. Calling a cab would’ve been smart, she could say that in hindsight, but she was too happy to ignore the beautiful night, too focused in her own little world to care about her own safety.

 

A mistake she would recount later down the road, but for now, it simply added to her heavy euphoria. So deep in her own mind, she missed the screech of tires, the footsteps behind her, the sound of gunshots around her. Not until one embedded itself into the flesh at her side, the pain blooming in her body like effervescent roses.

 

She can feel hands grasping at her limbs, rough, chaotic, and her mind is clearing, both from the ecstasy and the pain. An angered growl leaves her lips, cigarette left forgotten on the pavement, her fist flying into the person closest to her. And she suddenly hears it, the familiar lilt of heavy accents, phlegmy and rough, brazen and harsh; Russian in all aspects of the words.

 

Shit.

 

Fingers press into the wound at her side, feeling the sticky warmth of the newly exposed blood, head dizzy from both alcohol and pain. It’s not until a hard object slams itself into the back of her skull that she’s truly immobilized. Black spots are dancing in her vision, rough touches pulling at her shoulders, heaving her into a car, body lay none too gently between a few burly men. Or at least what she assumes to be men.

 

These guys knew where she’d be, been clearly watching her for a while, and found the right opportunity to snag her. If she were more coherent, she’d be figuring out ways to get out, to fight back, but the pain is too strong and the harsh gasps too much for her collapsing lungs. Between the bullet wound and the blunt force trauma, she cannot even begin to formulate any course of action. And as she releases a groan in the backseat, the heel of someone’s boot flings itself into her gut, the air escaping her lungs in a quick whoosh.

 

She should’ve taken Matt’s offer, she should’ve kept an eye out, she should’ve, could’ve, would’ve…

 

Fingers press harder into the bleeding hole at her side, body crumpled in a heap on the floor of the van, breathing in heavily. This was the end for her, wasn’t it? She would be carted off to Melikov, brought before him, and ripped to pieces, body strewn all along the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. She only pitied the people she’d leave behind.

 

Yet when the car swerved to the right, then skidded haphazardly, a spark of hope lit up her insides. She had a fighting chance.

 

Their fear is palpable on her tongue, their screams of apprehension music to her ears, and even in her half-conscious state, she has an inkling of what is coming for them. Death was rearing its head and he would not be merciful.

 

The van continues to zig zag, bullets flying through the car until one strikes the driver; she feels the blood spray over her. More bullets come raining in, more of the fucking assholes dead in their seats, and when the last one left standing is finally able to bring the van to a halt, does her brain fully understand the situation.

 

Her blood had begun to pool beneath her, the hand which had been grasping her wound was growing numb. The injury to her head causing the blood to congeal in her hair, the bruised ribs making it harder to breathe. She could hear the one man begging, pleading, for his life, something that would not be granted, and as the blood loss begins to set in, she hears the final shot.

 

Boots on gravel, steps moving closer and closer to where she was, and then the van door flies open. And a simple word leaves her cracked lips, “You…?”

 

“Shit, kid.”

 

A short laugh escapes her heaving lungs, then replaced by a pained moan. His large figure is now hulking in the back of the car, rifle set off to the side, a foreign look in his dark eyes. She cannot decide whether it is anger or worry, but she can tell that, whatever it is, her situation isn’t looking good. Within seconds, his palm is pressing against her bullet wound, causing her to gasp.

 

“Fuck.”

 

And that one word causes her more distress than it should. After all, she wasn’t afraid of death, right? There was nothing to fear, she welcomed the darkness with open arms. _Right_?

 

Another hand, gentler this time, roams the back of her head, gingerly touching the open laceration on the base of her skull, grunt leaving his lips. He looks almost unsure as he meets her eyes.

 

“We gotta get you outta here.”

 

She can’t speak, can’t find any words that can help in this situation, can’t convey how she feels or what she wants. So, instead, it’s a short nod that tells him what he needs to know. But they both know she’s growing cold.

 

Her eyelids flutter, breathing evening, and it’s a sharp shout that brings her back, pulls her from oblivion, and keeps her grounded in the pain. “Don’t sleep. You gotta stay awake.”

 

She can’t register what’s going on, but suddenly something is wrapping around her midsection, pulling against the wound, tying itself like a tourniquet. A slight intake of breath tells him he’s doing something right. Everything is foggy to her, hazy, and she can’t focus on one thing or another, eyes rolling in her head.

 

And then she’s being lifted, arms secured around her shoulders and beneath her knees. Body jostled with every movement, gritting her teeth against the pain, his boots thumping against the ground. She is unaware of what’s happening, cannot figure out her surroundings, but she knows she’s moving and she’s moving fast.

 

Then the sound of more tires, of harsh words and raised voices, her body being tucked behind a large object. And gunshots are firing, people are screaming, bodies are falling around her, but she can’t decipher the events before her. All she can feel is the lethargy, the need to drift off to sleep, and the extreme pain in every corner of her limbs.

 

As she closes her eyes and the darkness surrounds her, the last thing she registers is one last ring of a gunshot.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I have returned with another chapter!! I deeply apologize that this took me so long to write. I was going through a slump and was unsure of how to continue this chapter. It's been halfway written for over a month now, I just didn't know how to finish it. Suddenly, I was hit with inspiration and, next thing I know, I'm flying through the rest of it. I hope to start having a regularly scheduled chapter posting, but I'm not sure how that'll go. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm going to also be starting a Kylo Ren x Reader and a Loki Laufeyson x Reader fic soon!! I tried to post the Kylo one a bit back and succeeded, but I honestly hated it so I decided to redo it. As always, they will be based off of OCs of mine, but just leaving the descriptive characteristics and names out. 
> 
> And, of course, let me know how you guys like the story!! I always appreciate and read every one of your comments!! 
> 
> Stay safe my dears!!
> 
> \- Hamlet xo


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